


Midnight Gifts for Broken Men

by Unlimited_Siggy



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Camp Terror, Canon Compliant, Dancing, Firsts, Friendship, Gift Giving, M/M, pining of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:33:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27550819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unlimited_Siggy/pseuds/Unlimited_Siggy
Summary: Captain Francis Crozier has a gift he wishes to give to his junior, Fitzjames. One that will speak volumes where his words had previously failed him.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11
Collections: Fall Fitzier Exchange





	Midnight Gifts for Broken Men

**Author's Note:**

  * For [owlboxes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlboxes/gifts).



Inside his canvas tent, Francis paced up and down his modest quarters that housed his cot on one side and his desk on the other. Hands behind his back, the Irish captain wrung them fretfully before he came to an abrupt stop in front of his chair, the back of which he grabbed and squeezed with his bare hands till his knuckles turned white. He was frustrated, almost maddeningly so and it _all_ had to do with the object that taunted him from his desktop.

_Stupid bleedin’ canvas._

Lit by the glow of his lamp and reflected in the glass of his mirror was a canvas wrapped package made of blotched scraps and held together by frayed twine. On first glance, it looked like a pile of refuse and not a carefully constructed gift. Francis had tried, and decidedly _failed_ , to beautify the old, used canvas. Instead of being wrapped in fine decorative paper, he’d had to make do with the scraps he’d scrounged up around camp. What little fine fabric he’d brought from the _HMS Terror_ , Francis had used to sew the gift he was about to give to Commander Fitzjames.

It was a trifle of a thing, rather silly even, however, Francis believed James would appreciate the effort that had gone into the present. It would speak for him after his own words had failed him.

Francis had been inspired to bestow James with a handmade camisole after the revealing discussion they’d engaged in on the walk home from Victory Point. They’d spoken of friendship, brotherhood, and _freedom_. At the end of vanity, Fiztjames did not have to prove himself or put on a show—not to Francis, and nor to anyone else. The ruddy-faced captain had conveyed this message wordlessly through the gentle touch of his hand and a tender glance at his morose counterpart.

They were brothers, _more so_ even.

The younger man had shed a tear and on their long march back to camp he shared other truths with his new-found brother and confidant. Fitzjames’ costume at Carnivale, beautiful Britannia with her centurion helmet and white and wine coloured robes, had been a deliberate choice to satisfy another part of the dark-haired officer’s self. It was not a side Fitzjames expressed often, only when opportunity presented itself in jokes, fancy dress balls, and the privacy of his cabin. This part of his nature, so explained the commander, aligned closer to what society considered to be feminine traits and ideals. Any inclination Fitzjames had to engage in such follies were effectively hidden from everyone… _except_ him.

_Francis, you are now the one and only man in the world who **truly** knows me. I have carried this burden for so long, it feels as if a great weight has been lifted off my shoulders._

A hard lump had become trapped at the back of Francis’ throat. All he’d been able to do was smile fondly at the young officer and offer acknowledgement through whatever body language he could muster. There had been no words to express how the Irishman felt for this brave soldier who’d opened up and shared his true colours with him. He’d stayed silent, and although it had been a comfortable one, the Irishman now wished he’d spoken up at the time to voice his care and acceptance for this _other_ part of James’ self.

Unable to withstand the tension any longer, Francis threw on his heavy coat, mitts, and cap and headed out his tent with the gift pinned beneath his arm. He crossed _Camp Terror_ at a brisk pace, his footsteps somehow simultaneously loud and quiet at the same time. The wind blew wickedly from the northwest and passed through his many layers to chill him to the bone. The only sounds that seemed to carry were the wracking coughs of his seamen and officers and the crunch beneath his boots.

Once outside the tent which belonged to Commander Fitzjames, Francis paused at the opening and cleared his throat to capture the attention of its occupant.

“Commander Fitzjames, might I have a word,” inquired Francis who could see lamp light through the narrow gaps between the poles and stretched canvas. There was no sound or hint of movement until James appeared from between the two flaps of his tent.

“Yes, of course. Come in before either of us catches our death of cold,” offered Fitzjames who then ushered Francis inside and out of the breeze that blew across the rocky waste of King William’s Land.

“Much obliged,” answered Francis who entered the dimly lit tent, removed his hat, and walked to the back of the shelter. He tossed his cap to one side and stood sheepishly by a wooden chest while Fitzjames tethered the door behind them and then turned his attention to his guest.

James looked exhausted, his cheeks were hollow and the lines about his face were more pronounced as were the dark spots around his lips and scalp. They needed to get off this cursed bit of rock and away from the creature that hunted them. Escape was a long way yet and there was no guarantee any of them would survive to the end of it. It was for this reason that Francis was determined to go through with his plan though he was near overcome with anxiety.

“Here,” Francis said, his voice low and gruff.

A look of confusion crossed Fitzjames’ face while he stared at the present Francis thrust in his direction.

“What’s this?”

“D’you remember the conversation we had on our way back t’camp?”

“I do,” replied James softly, almost warily, as he stepped closer to the Irish captain.

“I’m not much for conversation—words escape me at the best o’ times an’ I fear that I did not make myself clear when you bore yourself t’me. So, please, take this gift—from me t’you.”

The furrow on James’ brow looked severe in the harsh light, yet the young officer took the gift with a sincere nod before he brought it over to his desk and into the light. Tentatively, James pulled the twine bow free and slowly unwrapped the canvas covered present. The officer’s fingers trembled noticeably, whether it was from the cold or something else, Francis could not be sure. The Irishman’s own hands wrung together nervously though he hid them behind his back.

When at last the heavy fabric was moved aside, James gasped.

Fingers that were torn and marked hovered over the delicate blue ribbon interlaid with the lace border of the sleeveless camisole. A ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of James’ lips as he took stock of the delicate cotton garment. He’d been taken by surprise, that much was obvious to the Irishman. The camisole was the finest piece of clothing in all of the northwest and _certainly_ on King William’s Land. A lone tear slipped past James’ guard and slid down his cheek before he could catch it.

“When—” began the dark-haired officer before his voice broke. The young man took pause and reached up to brush away his tears before he tried again. “When did you have time to make this?”

“Sleep has eluded me ever since we stepped foot on firm land,” explained Francis with a listless bob of his head. Not so long ago, the opposite had been true and it was only after he’d escaped his poison’s deadly grasp that he returned to his senses. “In those twilight hours, when my mind wanders and tries to anticipate what lays in store for us, I busy myself with needle an’ thread. It is a more attractive alternative than layin awake in my cot doin nothin save for makin myself sick.”

For this, Francis had his steward to thank. Mr. Jopson was a smart fellow, good with the needle, and had guided him in ways to direct his anxious energy.

“…I don’t know what to say, Francis,” murmured James with an astonished shake of his head. He lifted up the camisole and held it against his body as though to imagine what it would look like worn.

“Go on, try it on. Pay my presence no mind,” proposed the Irishman with a good-natured quirk of his lips.

It was said somewhat in a jest, yet Francis hoped his junior officer would take him up on it. For a moment it looked as if Fitzjames would decline, let the pretty cotton garment fall to his lap, and maybe pretend the suggestion had never been uttered. Francis held his breath, suddenly worried he’d said the wrong thing and offended his host—perhaps the gift had been too bold. The Irishman straightened his back and stood steadfast while under the intense scrutiny of his second in command.

“You are to avert your eyes until such time I say otherwise.”

As the officer moved to remove his heavy coat, Francis closed his eyes and turned away from the desk where Fitzjames stood. The tent provided some protection from the elements but it was necessarily to wear multiple layers inside their meager lodgings. He listened to the rustle of cloth while the dark-haired officer removed each layer from his jacket to his cravat and finally, his shirt. It was a slow process which James filled with his smooth, impossibly warm voice while he shared another truth with his senior officer and friend.

“My dear sister, Elizabeth, is an accomplished woman and a fine match for my brother. I adore her, and we’ve exchanged many a letter, however, I must admit that I am also terribly envious of her circumstance and fortune. Sometimes, I wish I could switch places with her and live as she does—wear dresses of sheer muslin, fashion my hair in soft ringlets, and enjoy the social season.”

James sighed, and after a moment of silence said, “alright Francis, I’m ready, look if you must.”

The Irish captain turned to face Fitzjames and then opened his eyes. Immediately, his gaze was drawn to the man’s half-naked form which now sat demurely at his desk. The young officer looked almost ethereal cast in a soft yellow glow. It was easy to imagine they were somewhere else—back on the _Terror_ or even at a cheap flat in London. This was certainly the most intimate experience they’d ever had between them. Francis moved to stand behind James’ chair, mitts discarded, and raised his plams which he placed gently on James’ shoulders.

“…you look like an angel,” hushed Francis after he leaned down to catch Fitzjames’ gaze in the glass.

The dark-haired man scoffed and raised a hand to his face in embarrassment, “I’ve never known you to be cruel. I can see my reflection in the mirror and the visage that greets me is _no_ angel.”

With a click of his tongue, Francis shook his head. He reached past the officer’s head and flipped the offending object so it lay face down. He smiled, and glanced over James’ shoulder to say, “who can trust a mirror these days? Use yur imagination an’ pretend yur goin t’a fancy dress ball. You’ve a pretty gown in yur favourite colour, yur hair is fashioned jus’ as you want it, an’ you’ve some handsome jewelry t’wear, too.”

“Mhmm, I suppose I could do that but _only_ if you dance with me, captain,” replied James with a satisfied twinkle in his eyes. “I’ve always wanted to dance arm-in-arm with a handsome captain.”

This time it was Francis’ turn to scoff, “now look who is being cruel.” 

“If I am an angel than _you_ , sir, are my handsome captain.”

After Francis took a second to consider the proposal, he nodded and offered James his hand. If the man wanted to dance, then so be it. The dark-haired officer took the older man’s hand and came to stand a few inches from him. As gently as he could manage, Francis wrapped a hand around Fitzjames’ lower back and slipped the other into James’ cold, trembling one. There was not a lot of room to dance but the pair managed to takes a few stops back and forth to a silent waltz.

Neither man said a word nor were there any needed to express their happiness. James leaned forward and pressed their foreheads together, before he laughed and said, “never in my _wildest_ imagination did I ever consider you could fulfill my dreams, captain Crozier.”

“Nor you mine,” offered Francis with an honest smile.

Although he still struggled to voice it, Francis took comfort in their unusual relationship that had begun in animosity. He could gladly say things had changed since the night they’d first dined at Sir John’s table where he secretly wished to have tossed the enterprising officer overboard. Like James himself, the Irishman felt as though the taller man now knew him better than any other man _or woman_ on earth. He trusted the junior captain with his life, and with his secrets as well.

A shiver travelled through James’ body and rattled the man’s bones. Francis pulled back a little to remove his coat when something caught his attention. Brow furrowed, Francis reached for what appeared to be an injury to James’ arm but stopped short of the angry wound. In the centre of a dark ring, the officer’s skin split and oozed a thick white pus. The puzzled Irishman guided James’ arm up and he took note of an equally worrisome wound on the other side of his bicep.

“Not so pretty, is it? In addition to my bleeding gums and other ailments, I have come to understand that certain wounds about my person have reopened. I tend to them as best I can but I fear the worst has yet to come,” explained James with a touch of bitterness as he pulled his arm back to lift the bottom of his camisole and expose the angry wound between his ribs.

The sight of the officer’s injuries was enough to cause a stab of panic to rush through Irishman’s heart. Francis hadn’t realized how much James suffered from the mysterious illness than affected the majority of their men. They still had hundreds of miles to cover before they reached any Fort, let alone civilization, and at this rate it might be impossible for James to survive the stress of the journey. As if the dark-haired officer could read his mind, James voiced his own fear on the matter.

“I don’t know how much further I can go,” Fitzjames hushed as he lowered the camisole and wrapped his arms around himself. “It hurts to breathe, to swallow, to blink even. I feel my strength slipping away with the tide and there is nothing I can do to stop it. I know what awaits me, Francis…

“ _James,_ ” rasped the ruddy-faced captain, voice sharp with worry, “save that talk for another night.”

Sure in his actions the Irish captain unbuttoned his coat, jacket, and waistcoat and pulled the dark-haired man close to his frame. He wrapped his arms securely around his host and buried his face in the crook of the man’s neck in a passionate embrace. Tears welled in the corners of Francis’ eyes and he forced down a sob that threatened to alert James to his distress. Francis reached up and cradled the younger man’s head against his shoulder and spoke softly against the shell of James’ ear.

“All you need t’do is take it one step at a time, that’s it. An’ when you cannot take one step more I will help you.”

“I will go as far as my strength takes me, but Francis?”

“Yes,” replied the smaller man who held his breath in fear of what James had to say next.

“Promise me when the time comes and I no longer have the strength to do what needs to be done, you will help me.”

There was a finality to Fitzjames’ statement which seized the captain by his heart and caused a cascade of tears to tumble down the Irishman’s face. Francis knew what the young man meant and he felt an obligation to fulfill whatever request was asked of him. There was no shame, only sorrow that they would not be able to explore their new-found freedom together.

“…I promise.”

“Thank you, Francis—for gift, and the dance. You’ve given me much fodder to dream about tonight. I must confess I am quite cold and would prefer if I could lay down under the covers. Would you stay for a minute? I fall asleep faster when in the company of others.”

“Yes, o’ course,” answered Francis, half-choked by his emotions, before the officer slipped out of his arms and moved to cloth himself.

James donned his shirt, waistcoat, and other layers before he motioned to the bed of animal furs and blankets strewn across a low platform. The lanky officer slipped into bed first, followed by Francis who buried his face into the back of James’ neck and held the man tight against his body. He listened to each breath the younger man took until he felt the hypnotic pull of sleep which he allowed to claim him. For now, at least, the pair could drift off to another world, one in which they could dance the night away in some quite salon along the Thames.

James would be _his_ angel, and he the man’s captain.


End file.
